


You’re mine. I’m yours.

by obscureshipyard



Series: Hydra Husbands [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm a sucker for happy endings, Jack Needs a Hug, Jack being Jack, M/M, POV Jack, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sorry Not Sorry, eventually, reunited and it feels... terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscureshipyard/pseuds/obscureshipyard
Summary: After the events of Captain America: Winter Soldier with the fall of Hydra, and SHIELD we find out what happened to our Hydra Husbands. Jack holds Brock’s life in his hands. Will he choose certain death or total betrayal?Best if read after Part 1 & 2, could be a stand alone but might be slightly confusing.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Hydra Husbands [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032084
Comments: 21
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't let this pair go.
> 
> Thanks TemptedForTea for edits!

Jack leaned forward to get the pressure off his wrists. His arms ached. They'd been cuffed behind his back since he was taken from his windowless cell. He hated this feeling, not just the discomfort of his position but the knowledge that he was being saved for something. Someone wanted information, so Jack was kept alive.

If Hydra was still in charge, things would be simpler. He’d have a bullet in his head and wouldn’t have to worry about damage to his rotator cuffs. But Hydra wasn’t in charge. Jack woke up to a brand-new world with Hydra shattered and on the run. SHIELD was just as broken, but it seemed other agencies from the alphabet soup were actually getting a clue for once.

Days or weeks ago--hard to tell when in solitary--they had debriefed him about Pierce's death, Triskelion being raised to the ground, and some of the carnage that followed. Jack didn’t much care about that. He’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop since he woke up alive and in shackles. So now, here he sat, handcuffed to a tiny metal chair, and waiting to be interrogated.

The man for the job was small, mousey, and shrewd. He didn't mince words; clearly aware he was holding all the cards. Jack didn't like it, however he appreciated that he was the one handcuffed to a chair and completely cut off from the world. So, he listened when Agent Ross spoke.

They had gone through the typical lines of questioning: his name, rank, and serial number. Jack gave them back everything SHIELD had ever given to him--name, rank, and number. Ross had looked displeased but not surprised.

Then they'd gone over the personal stuff. Jack kept his mouth shut. He hated that they knew about his sister, his life before SHIELD and Hydra. But it wasn't until the questions turned to his personal connection with Brock Rumlow that Jack was seeing red.

"We know he was more to you than your commanding officer." Agent Ross paged through the stack of papers between them as if he were bored.

"They knew, too. Used it against us, like you are." Jack snarked.

"'They', not 'us', not 'we'. I wonder, Mr. Rollins, did you ever believe in what Hydra stood for?" Ross tilted his head with curiosity. Jack wanted to curse. He shouldn't have said a damn word.

Ross pulled papers from the stack, feigning reading them over. Silence stretched between them for minutes. Jack counted out the seconds, grinding his teeth together and fighting the urge to speak.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to know. Was Brock alive? Had he made it out? Was he in the next room getting grilled, or six feet under rotting away?

"They used what you and Agent Rumlow shared to keep you both on a very short leash." Ross flicked his eyes up to Jack’s face, but only for a moment.

"Like you're trying to do." Jack accused. He forced his face to stay passive. Any hint of blood in the water and Ross would have him.

"Not a leash, more like leverage. We need your intel to stop him. Since Triskelion, Rumlow has gone on a rampage. He now runs a terror cell, goes by Crossbones." Ross flipped one of the papers to Jack's side of the table. It was a photo, glossy and vibrant with color.

 _Crossbones_ , Jack could have laughed. _Fucking drama queen_. Jack carefully examined the picture for signs of doctoring. It was a marketplace, people scattered and running, maybe Middle Eastern or Northern African.

The subject of the photo was a figure in black, battered fatigues with body armor. A crude skull was scratched onto the facemask. The photo was too blurry to make out fine detail, but the man was the right height and build, and Jack knew that stance.

"My intel, so you can kill him." Jack let apathy soak his words. Brock was alive and apparently free. That was enough. Jack figured he was worth more to Brock dead than alive and ratting on him.

"We could have killed him weeks ago." Ross pushed two other pictures over. These were much more clear, closer, focused on a single target. The angle wasn’t from an overhead drone, but maybe a rooftop or high window. The message was as clear as Ross's words. If they wanted Crossbones dead, he would be.

"We want what you two knew about the inner workings of Hydra, _everything_ you knew. We're willing to deal. Rumlow’s our leverage. He was injured in the building collapse, nearly died. Word is he came out horribly disfigured." Ross spoke plainly. He sat back with his arms crossed, like a man who had played his hand and knew he would win.

"You want me to betray him." Jack accused. He'd rather die. People died in their line of work, Jack knew it, and Brock knew it, too.

"I want you to save him. Bring him in from the cold." Ross leaned forward, hands on the table, then continued. "We can fix him. Dr. Cho, you remember her? She’s done some amazing work, even more after SHIELD fell. _She_ can fix him."

Jack was still for a long while. He didn't believe rumors or information fed to him when he was handcuffed to a chair. He wasn't a rat, but he wasn't some Hydra sycophant.

Ross called it from the start. Jack was loyal, but it was Brock Rumlow that owned that allegiance. And now Brock had gone and made himself into a super-terrorist, complete with inefficient but dramatic bad-guy armor and a goddamned code name. Brock's manic-depressive mother would probably be proud.

"There's things broken that can't be fixed." Jack said, resignation clear in his voice.

"But you want to try. This is your chance, Rollins. You can save your skin and save Rumlow. You're not going to find a better deal than this. And it _is_ time sensitive. If Crossbones' body count keeps rising, then we won't be able to hold back on the kill order." The mousey man seemed more relaxed now, almost pleased.

“Bring him in from the cold.” Jack repeated the other man's words. “Bring him into the light.” He mocked. “Bring him into the open, loving embrace of the CIA or NSA or who-the-fuck-ever.” Jack sat back. His shoulders protested the movement, but the pain kept him focused.

“Get him out of our hair. Get him off of the streets. Get him away from the general populous.” Ross shot back.

“We’ve been offered deals this cherry before. Hydra even promised us cash and guns with all their other idealized garbage." Jack wanted to make Ross sweat. He wanted the higher ups that were listening to hurt for this.

“And world domination.” Ross rolled his eyes but stopped short. “No, that's right, you were never in it for that, were you Rollins? Never a true believer, just a man doing his job. I’m not sure if that's better or worse. Tell you what? I’ll give you a hell of a deal. You help bring Rumlow in, out of the cold, off of the streets. We’ll fix his face and hand him over to you to fix the rest.” The two men stared at each other. Jack didn't believe a word, but Ross wasn't flinching.

“I’m serious. You make good on your end and we give you new identities, passports, a bag of petty cash, and you two disappear from society. No more front-page news, no more terror cells. We’ll know where you are but won’t interfere in any way unless you step out of line. You won’t be assets or agents, just two private citizens trying to make it in this crazy world.” Ross leaned over the table, meeting Jack's eye as he spoke.

It sounded so perfect, too perfect. Jack let himself pretend, just for a moment. What would their lives be like if they were completely free? To have Brock, no more secrets, no more worry.

“I can’t make this deal...” Jack could risk himself. He could throw his own life away. But he was risking Brock. If the deal went wrong, if it really was too good to be true, Brock would be imprisoned or dead, and that would be on Jack.

He had made this same vow, what now felt like years ago. At three in the morning sitting on Brock’s couch, promising to himself that staying away from Brock would keep him safe. But he'd broken that promise, and it got him those precious months together. Jack wouldn't give up that time for the world.

“You can make this deal. And I bet you will. This is the only deal you’re gonna get. And Rollins?” Ross pushed the photos back in front of him. Crossbones front and center perfectly placed for a sniper to blow him away. “It’s the only deal _he’s_ gonna get.”

Ross stood from the table, chair scraping along the cement floor. "I'll give you some time to think it over."

After he left, Jack sat forward, staring at the photos. His mind raced with every contingency. He knew what he should do, what he had to do, what he ought to do, what he wanted to do.

By the time the guards came to bring him back to his cell, Jack had the words to say: "I'll do it."


	2. Chapter 2

Tracking down Crossbones took less than a week. Ross hadn't been lying. The CIA had the intel to bring Crossbones to heel, they just hadn't moved on it. Likely worried about the loss of life, and loss of Brock as a source on Hydra if he went down in a hail of gunfire.

 _’If,’_ Jack felt his face wanting to smile. He knew of no reality where Brock Rumlow would go quietly.

It was a clear night. The unmarked van bounced violently on the dirt road beneath them. Jack narrowly avoided knocking into the gun-strapped soldier next to him. The kid couldn't be more than twenty. They were sending him into battle with toddlers. Jack didn't bother hiding the disapproval on his face as he examined the lot.

“We're less than five minutes out. Already passed two lookouts on the way in. Drone imaging is showing at least eight hostiles gathering in the main building we know to be their hideout." The leader of the small squadron shouted his orders. He, at least, seemed like someone who had done actual fieldwork. Not that it made Jack like the arrogant asshole anymore. “You sure you can get us in without catching a bullet?” He hollered over the ruckus of the van and gear.

“I can get me in, not you.” Jack said as he scanned the group.

“Deal was we--”

“Deal didn’t account for them having a full team on site and likely already knowing we’re here.” Jack interrupted. He was seething. _Amateurs,_ he was going to die with a bunch of amateurs.

He debated going forward with the op anyway, dying before he even laid eyes on Brock. How poetic it would be to come all this way only to be murdered by the man he was trying to save.

 _Shakespearean bullshit._ Jack refused to entertain the thought. He would pull Brock back from the brink by force if he had to. Jack practically growled as spoke.

“They're gathering but haven't moved on us. Best case is they don’t think we’re a threat. You all jump out of this van and we’re all dead. You let me out alone and I might be able to slip in, or they might just be curious or stupid enough to let me in. If I'm wrong, then I'm the only one dead." At least then it would be over.

“I can’t authorize that." The other man shouted back just as the van slowed to a stop. Jack rolled his eyes. How many times had he gone in on a mission without authorization? Only difference being, he usually wasn’t alone. It felt different without his commander leading the charge.

“No shit, I’m not asking for permission.” Jack tightened the straps on his Kevlar. His hands felt empty without a gun. But he’d been in the field with less. He wasn’t injured, and he knew where his target lay in wait. He was going in. “I’m getting out of this van, might get shot either way. But you or any of these other baby jarheads step one foot outside and you’re dead. Up to you.”

The van had stopped within sight of the hideout. The rotting warehouses provided decent cover, but Jack didn’t know the terrain, he didn’t know anything really. All he knew was Brock was inside, armed and dangerous.

Jack ground his teeth and moved towards the main building alone.

He kept silent as he slipped through the shadows. He hadn’t been out in the field for months, but years of training weren’t so easily lost. Footsteps and the crackling of two-way walkie talkies echoed off the bare concrete walls. Keeping his breath steady, he followed them deeper inside.

Jack was mildly amused that Brock was running with a team so poorly trained. It was likely the only reason he made it this far into the hideout without getting pinned down and shot. The noises got louder as Jack neared the center of the building.

At least ten men, armed and on edge. Their voices were low, but it was enough ruckus to cover Jack's approach.

He was still skirting the periphery of the room, hiding behind plastic covered pallets when one voice rose above the others. The voice was gravely and strained, as if the speaker's vocal cords were damaged. But Jack knew that voice.

"Three teams of two, one on each side and one in back, the rest of you stay here." Brock was barking orders and suddenly Jack felt an ache in his chest. Brock was alive, and less than a hundred feet in front of him. "No survivors. I want bodies intact; we could use a few corpses for our next step."

Jack felt sick. Hope mixed with disgust and despair. Brock was alive, and Jack was about to turn him over to the CIA. He debated just turning tail and running. He could disappear into the night. The CIA would get tired of hunting for him eventually. He could keep hidden and keep Brock safe.

Pressure against the base of his skull stopped Jack dead. The muzzle of a gun pressed harder against him. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. _No going back now._ Jack raised his hands in surrender.

The sharp strike of pain from the butt of the gun didn’t knock him out but was enough to bring Jack to his knees. Echoing voices were suddenly raised and he was dragged to the center of the room. He forced his body to let go of the blurry wave of nausea. Jack needed to stay conscious.

When he was finally able to get his eyes to focus it was to the sight of no less than five guns pointed at his face. The concrete floor was less than forgiving on his knees, but it helped Jack focus his attention on that feeling rather than the blasting pain in the back of his skull.

Commands and questions were being shouted at him, but it was nothing he could understand in his hazy state. Jack lifted his heavy head up and found hazel eyes locked on him. Those eyes burned into him from wide holes in a metal mask. Crossbones--Brock was looking at him.

“Everyone out.” Brock's command drowned out all other voices. Bustling movement was suddenly at a standstill. The moment was frozen in time. Jack wanted to laugh and cry. “ _Now!_ ”

Everything picked up speed again. The crushing grip one of his captors had on his shoulders was gone. He stayed kneeling on the ground, his eyes glued to Brock. He felt a swift kick to his ribs, but Brock was charging near where Jack doubled over. Before he could take a full breath again, there was stillness.

Jack got his breathing under control but stayed on the ground. Brock stood before him, face still obscured by his skull-marked mask. Jack knew it was him, the eyes, his posture, his very being called out to Jack like no one else ever had. Jack blamed the concussion for the continued poetic garbage that kept spewing from his subconscious.

Those damned hazel eyes remained wide and unblinking as Brock stared at him. His gloved hand was curled tightly around his gun. It remained at his side. Jack knew to tread lightly. He wasn’t foolish enough to think things would pick up where they left off, this was no grand reunion. Life was hard and cruel and had never been kind to Jack or Brock.

“Hey, commander.” Jack risked moving his arms out, keeping his hands in sight and his movements slow.

“It’s a trick. You’re not real.” Brock pointed with his gun, but Jack didn't let himself flinch. Brock's finger wasn't on the trigger. Jack dared to hope.

“Brock.” He breathed. To say that name aloud. To be in the same room as the man he loved. And they were both alive. But life was never that kind.

“No! No. Sometimes you know-- sometimes I see shit. Shit that’s not there. Hallucinations and shit.” A wild look was bright in Brock's eyes. He began to pace around, not looking directly at Jack. His attention was turned inwards, muttering to himself. It stung to see Brock fallen so far from the soldier, the leader, he had once been.

“You ever seen me before, Brock?” Jack slowly stood from the floor. He kept his hands in front of him, and his voice calm. Brock stopped pacing but was still fidgeting in place. His gun was still at his side, so Jack dared to move closer.

“No. Never seen you before, Jackie.” Brock's voice was soft. This close, Jack could see the scar tissue that made up the skin around Brock’s eyes. _Disfigured_ , the word whispered from Jack’s memory.

“I’m here.” Jack promised. He brought his raised hands together. Slowly, he pulled at the wrist of his left sleeve. Four little black dots in a square formation tattooed on the inside of his wrist, just over his pulse point. Brock had a matching set in the same place, hiding under his watch band. Or he had, before Triskelion.

“Jack… you’re--” Brock dropped his gun. Shaking fingers reached out, one hand to Jack’s wrist, the other to the center of Jack’s chest. “You’re alive.”

Jack could hear the shuddering breath and sudden sob. Brock’s head dropped low as Jack pulled him into his arms. Jack wanted to kiss him, wanted to pull him out of this pain and make everything better again.

“I’m alive.” He felt the shudders wracking Brock’s body. Jack pulled back, just enough to reach for the mask keeping Brock’s face hidden. He didn’t care what Brock looked like. He was holding the man he loved in his arms again, nothing else mattered.

The shattering glass caught them both off guard. The familiar metallic clatter of multiple canisters hitting the floor around them had Jack’s heart sinking in his chest. He pulled Brock in tight, closing his eyes and doing his best to shield him from whatever came next.

Blinding light and smoke filled the room. Brock was struggling in his arms, but before he could pull away, they were both slammed to the unforgiving floor. Jack’s lungs were burning, his head throbbing. The ringing in his ears let up just enough for him to hear shouting and gunfire.

 _Brock_ , Jack struggled under a boot keeping him pinned to the floor. He thrashed to the left and his hand hit something solid and warm. Jack craned his neck up high enough to see the dark fatigues of the CIA team leader. The man stood over Brock’s body, boot firmly planted on the prone man’s upper back.

He wasn’t moving. Jack took in as much air as his aching lungs could muster, ready to scream. But then, with a crack, the whole world went dark. Life was never kind.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack woke up to the humming of fluorescent lights, a familiar lullaby. The stale air and off-white paint were just as he remembered. He was back in his cell. Clicks and cracks sounded through the small space as Jack unfolded himself from the thin foam mat that served as his bed.

His thoughts felt slow and slippery. Dreams muddled with memories. Everything felt surreal. The heavy steel door of the cell screeched open wide, drawing Jack’s attention with a wince.

"Good to see you're finally awake. How's the head?" Agent Ross stood before him, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jack glared at him. The urge to kill, to plead, to just go back to sleep all battled for dominance as Ross prattled on. "Yeah, the concussions. We fixed them, but it tends to still leave you feeling pretty hung over. Modern medicine, gotta love it. You'd be surprised at the things we can do now. It's worked miracles for me."

Jack frowned at Ross as he chatted away. He forced himself to his feet. Breathing came a bit easier now that he was standing. Muddled thoughts became clear.

"You got a show to go with all this tell, Ross?" Jack could hear the slight slur in his words but didn't pay it much mind. At least it got Ross to stop talking.

"Right this way." The smaller man motioned to the open door. Jack put out his wrists for a set of cuffs, but Ross waved him off. "We put you out in the field, and not only did you not escape--or try and murder anyone--you also successfully completed the mission. Meaning, for the moment, we've got leverage."

Jack just frowned again and dropped his hands to his sides. Ross’ words felt like they had a hidden meaning, something tugging at Jack’s brain. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what. Ross led him down the dark corridor, flanked by only one armed guard. The three men were silent as they boarded an elevator with badge, biometric fingerprint, and key code authorization.

Two more long hallways and one more elevator ride led to a wing that looked more like a hospital ward than a prison. The high windows along the corridor they walked let in sunlight. It had been a long time since Jack saw sunlight.

"Brock Rumlow, safe and sound, as promised." Ross stopped in front of a large sliding glass door.

His words pulled Jack form his partially delirious musings. Brock, the flash grenade... _You’re alive._

Jack shoved opened the door and rushed inside. He stopped. Ross and the guard had the good sense to stay by the door. The room was small, a few square feet bigger than Jack's cell. Brock laid there, a dark heap of flesh on pure white sheets. Wires and tubes were stuck to nearly every inch of exposed, gnarled skin. Stacks of IV pumps stood behind the bed with bags of medicine in every color.

The steady beeping of a heart monitor echoed in Jack’s ears. It was far slower than his own throbbing pulse. Brock’s face was uncovered, melted skin exposed to the unforgiving fluorescent lights above. He looked like he was sleeping.

Jack’s vision went cloudy, but he fought back tears. His gut burned with the urge to pull Brock into his arms, rip out every IV, and just hold him. Every harsh reality came to the surface at once. He was a prisoner; Brock was now too. Jack was responsible for taking Brock down and bringing him in. He wasn’t able to be strong for Brock, his own desires made him weak. And now his weakness led to this.

"He's here. He's safe. Dr. Cho and her team will need some time to work on him. We can talk while you wait." Ross stood just inside the door. His voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want to wake the broken man in the bed.

Guilt-fueled nausea threatened to bring Jack to his knees. He didn't trust Ross. He didn't trust the CIA. But so far they made good on the deal. Jack stepped back into the corridor and prepared for the end.

At least it felt like the end as Jack walked down that long hallway. He prayed that if this was the end, that the bullet would be quick, and he wouldn't be able to realize his last act had been a total betrayal of the man he loved. He prayed the feeling of ending meant something new was beginning.

Ross stopped at a small, windowless room. It wasn’t too different from the room Jack had been interrogated in only days before. A thick envelope sat on the small table at the center of the room. Jack sat down and did his best to keep the worry off his face.

"New identities, passports, bank account information, and debit cards. We left your first names the same but changed the last." Ross pushed the packet across the table.

Jack fought the trembling in his hands as he opened the envelope and dumped out the contents. The pictures on the passports were their old SHIELD identification photos, the copies of their signatures were flawless. _Smith,_ for both Jack and Brock. Were they supposed to be brothers? Husbands? Would Brock--

"Time to pony up, Mr. Smith. We've made good on our end." Ross pulled a small recording device from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.

“Is this all for intel? You’re giving us...freedom.” He stared at the papers in wonder. Jack had no idea how to process any of it. He had expected to die, to rot in a cell for decades, he had expected to lose Brock forever. He took a chance because there was no other option that rang with anything close to hope, and now he stood on the precipice of freedom.

“It’s mostly for your intel... but, it’s also the smart play. We’ve been learning a lot since that portal opened over in New York. Gods and aliens, things we need to be able to keep up with. Men like you two are pawns, but it’s foolish to throw out any pieces when you don’t know who you might be up against.” Ross’s words felt familiar. Jack and Brock weren’t special, they were useful. They were pieces in someone else’s game.

The thought was enough of a terrible reality to balance Jack’s fears. Everything came at a price, and this was what he would pay. They’d be on retainer for the rest of their lives, dirty little secrets the CIA kept for whenever they were needed. But they could still be together.

Jack spilled his guts. Every contact, every operation skewed or tainted by the tentacles of Hydra. It took hours. He named names and signed his life away with a sworn statement. His life was over any way he looked at it. With this, he had a scrap of hope that his last few days might be with Brock.

He nearly smiled to himself, _Jack Rollins, the optimist._ Jack Smith, he corrected himself. Jack Rollins was dead.

After Ross wrapped up his questioning, he left Jack to check on Brock’s progress. The silence was oppressive. There wasn’t even a clock in the room, but Jack had grown used to solitary. The voices crept in and he knew everyone. Doubt and guilt were the loudest now.

Would Brock even want to see him? Would he hate him? Would he understand? Was this all for nothing? If Brock refused to talk would they just toss him in a cell for a few months like they had to Jack? Jack wouldn’t leave without him. He’d sit in the cell right next to him and wait.

There were no answers, only fear and waiting. Every plan and back-up plan escaped him. Jack had nothing. So, when Ross came back and proclaimed that Brock was responding well to the treatment and would likely be ready to wake up tomorrow morning, Jack just felt sick.

He welcomed the familiarity of his cell. He stared up at the unblinking lights above until the power was cut for the night. Tomorrow he would face Brock and get everything he had bargained for. He would have an answer to the questions that tied his guts in knots. Jack couldn’t think of a worse fate.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep was nothing but fits of nightmares. When the lights finally bust into brightness in the morning it was a welcome pain. It wasn’t long before the guard to come collect him. The scruffy faced man with a gun strapped to his chest walked Jack to the medical wing in silence.

Standing outside of Brock’s room, Jack’s feet were leaden. It was the moment before the plunge when everything was still just possibility. He caught sight of movement in the room. Dr. Cho, dressed in her white coat, moved to Brock’s bedside. She waved him in.

Jack expected scars. The image of Brock’s mangled face and body burned into the backs of his eyelids all night. As he came closer to the bed, he saw nothing but a gorgeously sculpted face, every inch of skin and thick strand of black hair was perfection.

Cho was prattling on in her light but professional tone, something about a familiar face being important when she took Brock off sedation. Jack couldn’t focus on the words over the rush of blood in his ears. Brock’s breath was coming in slow drags, his chest barely moving where he lay stretched out on the mattress.

“Jack?” Cho stared at him from across the bed. Worry was clear in her expression.

“Thank you for letting me be here.” Jack quickly forced the words out. He didn’t want to worry the woman who held Brock’s life in her small, skilled hands.

No matter his fate, this was the only place Jack wanted to be, and the only place he wished he wasn’t. He didn’t want Brock to wake up alone. He also knew that if they brought Brock Rumlow back from the brink, he’d likely wake up ready to fight. Someone would be taking that beating--Jack knew he was the one who deserved it.

“Of course, I’m going to taper the sedation now. He should wake up quickly. The treatment we gave him increases metabolism significantly, so he should clear all of the medication from his system within minutes.”

“Will he hurt?” Jack couldn’t hold back the words. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“No, he shouldn’t feel any pain.” The pity in Cho’s dark eyes set Jack on edge. He hated the weakness of vulnerability. But he was powerless to fight against the consequences of his actions now.

Jack focused on Brock’s face. Moving in close, he grabbed Brock’s hand and pressed his fingertips to the steady pulse point at his wrist. The IV beeped as Cho turned down the drip. She went slow, watching Brock’s vitals closely on the monitor at the head of the bed.

Brock’s fingers twitched in Jack’s hand. His eyelids stayed relaxed and closed. A furrow appeared on Cho’s brow as she turned off the sedation completely. A slight tension filled the air of the room.

“I don’t understand, he should be--” Jack raised a hand to silence the doctor. He moved in close, leaned down to whisper into Brock’s ear.

“Brock, you’re safe. You’re in a CIA black-op site. I’m here. Dr. Cho fixed you up. She made you all pretty again." Jack lingered at his ear, savoring the warmth of Brock’s skin so near his lips. He tried to keep the hope from choking his voice. "I know you’re awake.”

It was painful to pull away. Jack fought the urge to trace the lines across Brock’s forehead and down his cheeks. Hazel eyes opened, and Jack was transported to a sunny morning waking up in bed together after a night tangled in each other's arms.

Brock’s hand remained limp in Jack’s. His eyes were fixed on Jack’s face, not even sparing a glance at Cho or around the room. The doctor was chirping away again with questions directed at Brock, but neither man moved to answer.

“Hey doc, think you can give us a minute?” Jack tore his eyes away to look at her. He let every fear and scrap of hope show through, pleading with her to understand.

“I need to run a few tests…” Cho’s voice drifted as she was struck by the raw emotion on Jack’s face. Her brow furrowed again as she nibbled at her lip. “You know, I left my tablet in my office. I’ll be right back.” She turned towards the door on the opposite side of the room. Reaching for the handle she called over her shoulder softly. “Five minutes, Rollins, and there are cameras.”

Jack watched the door close behind her. His skin burned from where Brock’s gaze bore into him. He let his eyelids drop closed, sucked in air through his nose and forced his muscles to relax.

"What did you do, Jack?” Brock’s voice sounded dry, but not angry. His fingers suddenly pulled at Jack’s hand.

"I saved you." Once the words started to trickle out it was like a flood. "I couldn't let you die like that. They were going to kill you. I couldn't let you go." Jack’s chest constricted but before he could sob Brock was pulling him down into his arms.

It was awkward, bent halfway over the bed, Brock still wrapped up in sheets and IVs. But it was everything Jack risked their lives for. Brock’s body was heavy and warm in his arms. He smelled like sweat and tasted like salt as Jack kissed his neck.

"Idiot. Now they have us both." Brock spoke the words into Jack’s skin but didn’t pull away. There was no venom in his voice, only tears. His fingers dug into Jack’s body. The twinge of pain reminded him it was real.

"I'm here and I'm not leaving your side ever again. They try to take us apart and we take them apart." He promised. Jack could make no stronger vow than one to this man. His fate was sealed the moment Brock opened his eyes. They’d never be taken apart again.

“Fucking romantic.” Brock pulled back just enough to kiss Jack’s lips. Salt flavored their tongues as tears fell between them. “Makes you stupid.”

“They’re not like Hydra.” Jack pressed in close, aching to feel every inch of skin against his own.

“Oh what, they’re the good guys?” Brock did pull away, his hands stayed attached to Jack’s shoulders, but the concern and disbelief was clear in his eyes. Jack couldn’t get over how tired Brock looked. He figured he looked about the same.

“No, they’re a mess, disorganized, and sentimental. We could blow this place, right here, right now. They’d never catch us. Not before we killed a whole lot of them.” Jack knew they could do it. With Brock leading the charge Jack would march into hell. “They offered us a deal, intel for our freedom. They already made good on bringing you in and fixing your face. I’ve got the paperwork in hand. We’re getting out of here one way or another.”

It was all so perfect. Jack refused to think about it further. He was taking Brock and they were leaving, as soon as the man could stand. There was no other reality he would accept.

Brock shook his head, practically chuckling. "What? We're just supposed to go buy a farm upstate somewhere, live happily ever after?" He kissed Jack again, short and sweet.

"I was thinking a lot more south." Jack let his true Australian accent color his words. "Let me take you home."


End file.
